The Intelligencer

by Leslie Silbert

  “I’ve got two-point-two million from the young gent on my right, paddle eight-twenty-two. On my right at two-point-two million. Who will say two-point-three? Two-point-three from a telephone bidder. At two-point-three million pounds. Back to you, sir. Will you say two-point-four?”

  Giles Spencer lifted paddle 822 with a smile. Wearing his lucky pinstripe suit, he knew he was looking particularly dapper, and now he was about to own another new painting, his second so far that evening. The familiar rush flowed through his veins. Once in a while it was better than coke.

  “I’ve got two-point-five from the telephones. At two-point-five million. We have two-point-six on my right, at two-point-six from paddle eight-twenty-two. At two-point-six million pounds. Who will say two-point-seven? Anyone for two-point-seven? Fair warning then, at two-point-six million. Another warning at two-point-six million pounds. And it’s yours, sir. Well done, then. Sold, at two-point-six million pounds.”

  Giles watched the auctioneer slam down his gavel, then scribble onto a notepad, peering through reading glasses that seemed to clutch the end of his nose for dear life. He wondered when they would fall.Five, four, three, two…must be glued there.

  As he left his seat to fetch a drink, an unexpected sight stopped Giles in his tracks. Against the room’s drab backdrop—navy walls with white trim, subdued gowns and dinner jackets, mostly gray hair and pale skin—a deeply tanned young woman in a bright red dress compelled him to blink, then pinch himself. The dress was tight, and it clung to her perfect breasts like cellophane.

  Giles glanced away, not keen on getting caught staring. That was when he noticed that someone else was doing so as well. The man was tall and fit with a full head of dark gray hair tied back in a ponytail. His darkV -shaped brow was jarring against his pale skin and gave his face a decidedly sinister quality. Clearly the man was not afraid to stare, and he did so with a strange look on his face, an almost mesmerized, quiet smile to himself. As if he knew her but not quite. Was the dish in red some kind of celebrity?

  Giles turned back to her. She was tiny—not more than an inch or two above five feet. He didn’t recognize her, he realized, but the perfect name for her came to him: Robin Redbreasts. No one who spent more than a few moments in his consciousness escaped without a nickname. He watched as she spotted the bar, murmured a few words to her friend, then sauntered toward it. Giles admired her liquid movement, a tasty confection of grace and sexiness. Then he shifted his gaze to follow the eyes of her other admirer, perhaps to share a moment of lecherous complicity.

  To Giles’s surprise, the man with theV -shaped brow was looking at the friend, a taller, aloof-looking girl in a black cocktail dress. She was pretty, he supposed—fairly flawless, in fact—but with her standoffish body language, she was altogether uninteresting to him. A bit too muscular as well. Her arms looked as if they belonged to a teenage boy. Yeah, Giles thought, Redbreasts was the fox. No, Redbreasts was the hot chick, andhe was the fox.

  With the flush of excitement from his new purchase bolstering his confidence, Giles zeroed in on his quarry.

  Kate watched the young dandy strutting toward Adriana with a self-satisfied smirk. His hair was slicked back, emphasizing his virtually nonexistent chin, and he was wearing a pinstripe suit that was a couple of inches too short for him—perhaps to show off the pink socks that matched his shirt. He murmured a few words—some kind of line, Kate assumed—then, after listening to Adriana’s reply, dropped his drink as well as his jaw. I wonder what she used this time, Kate wondered. Her “I prefer transsexual blowup dolls” line?

  With drinks in hand, Kate and Adriana took their seats. Sighing quietly, Kate settled in to enjoy the soothing sensory experience—the rhythmic timbre of the auctioneer’s voice; the soft buzz of hushed tones murmuring into cell phones in different languages; the bright numbers of foreign currency equivalents flashing above the auctioneer with every new bid, each flash in sync with his words; the small men in navy smocks moving back and forth like pendulums, replacing every painting on the wooden easel with new inventory.

  Kate was staring at a set of white hairs waving hello from behind a pale earlobe in front of her when Adriana nudged her out of her reverie.

  “Lot one-thirty-five,” the auctioneer announced.“The Balcony. Second in a series by Paul Cézanne, circa 1900. Graphite and watercolor on white paper. We’ll start this at three hundred thousand pounds, please. At three hundred thousand. A new bidder, the lady in red near the back wall. Who will say three hundred and twenty? Three hundred twenty thousand from the telephones. At three hundred and twenty thousand. Who will say three hundred forty? Do we have three hundred and forty thousand? Ah, paddle seven-seventeen, the gentleman on my left. Three hundred and forty thousand pounds from paddle seven-seventeen. How about three hundred and sixty? Three hundred and sixty from the woman in red. Who will say three eighty? You, sir, paddle seven-seventeen. On my left at three hundred and eighty thousand pounds. Four hundred from our telephone bidder. At four hundred thousand. Four hundred and twenty. Four forty. Four hundred and sixty.”

  The auctioneer’s head and his gesturing hand flicked in a triangular motion from bidder to bidder until the telephone caller dropped out. Then his head whipped back and forth between Adriana and the man with paddle 717, his voice getting faster and louder. In vain Kate craned her neck to catch a glimpse of her friend’s competition. But then Adriana gave up.

  “At five hundred and twenty thousand pounds. Do I hear five hundred forty? Who will say five hundred and forty? Are you sure, miss? This is your last chance. All right then. Fair warning at five hundred twenty thousand.”

  The auctioneer looked around. Nothing. “All done then, at five hundred and twenty thousand. Sold to the gentleman on my left. Well done, sir.”

  Adriana leaned over and spoke to Kate in an irritated whisper. “I think I might have to find that persistent little bugger and give him a piece of my mind. Maybe if I bat my eyelashes at him…”

  During a short break, Adriana and Kate stood chatting beside a large panel of Monet’s water lilies.

  “So Kate, I had my first affair with a woman.”

  “Yeah?”

  Adriana frowned. “Damn. I expected some shock.”

  “Come on, Ana, it takes a little more than that. The first chief of MI6 used to stab his prosthetic leg with a letter opener to freak people out. That’s the kind of thing that would get me.”

  “Oh, well. Anyway, the whole thing started with a night of ménaging à trois. Afterward the guy wouldn’t leave me alone, but whenever I saw the girl out, she gave me the cold shoulder.”

  “Which intrigued you.”

  “Well, that and the fact that satisfying a woman is like playing an instrument, and most men haven’t had proper lessons.”

  “Was it everything you’d hoped for?”

  “It was okay, I suppose,” Adriana replied. Then, staring into space as if searching for an answer, she added, “It just felt like something was missing.”

  Kate laughed.

  “I might have to try it again, though.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I’ve got this fantasy where a spurned lesbian storms into my office and hurls something heavy at me. The expression on my stuffy colleagues’ faces would beso priceless. My God, they’d—”

  Suddenly Adriana’s words faded as Kate caught a glimpse of a familiar profile. About eight yards farther along the wall, a man in an exquisitely tailored dinner jacket stood facing a painting. He had dark gray hair tied back, and a jaw line with an edge like a cleaver. As she looked at him, a number of images tumbled through her mind. Two men at dinner in Dubai. Two men on the Amalfi Coast. In Paris. In Berlin. Without question, the man before her was Luca de Tolomei. But he had declined the Sotheby’s invitation, Kate thought with surprise. Of that Edward Cherry had been certain. De Tolomei must have changed his mind at the last minute. But why? Was it a coincidence? Of course, she told herself. It had to be.

  “I�
�ve lost you, honey, what’s going on?” Adriana asked.

  “Mmm, an unexpected work thing. Can you do me a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m going to carry on a conversation with you. It might sound strange, but just assume everything I say is true and ask ‘Why?’ and ‘Tell me more’ type questions. You know, allow me to keep talking without letting it sound like a monologue.”

  Taking Adriana’s arm, Kate added, “Let’s go look at the Fragonard, three paintings up.”

  Sipping a peppermint schnapps, Giles Spencer had been leaning against a wall watching the Ripper since the break began. He had nicknamed the man with theV -shaped brow after his country’s most infamous serial killer. The man was probably harmless, but the way he was watching the girl in black so intently struck Giles as menacing. When she wasn’t looking, the Ripper stared at her with a bizarre sense of ownership and periodic flashes of desire. Desire that, oddly enough, seemed somehow nonsexual. More carnivorous than lascivious.

  But what should he call the girl, Giles asked himself, heading toward the bar for more schnapps. Next to Redbreasts, she was a plain Jane—but even so, she was a bit too pretty for that. Ice Queen? No, she wasn’t imperious enough to be a queen, he decided. Or a princess. More like a commoner, he thought. The Ice Commoner. Too clunky, had a bad ring to it. Ice Pleb? No, still didn’t suit her. Come on, Giles.

  Got it! Glacier Girl, he thought with pride.

  Returning to his vantage point across the room, Giles was intrigued to see that the two women were slowly moving toward the Ripper.Hmm. Then, looking more closely at Glacier Girl, he was startled to realize that he barely recognized her. Her large green eyes had taken on a near electric sparkle, she tossed her hair with flirtatious confidence, and she was holding her friend’s arm and leaning in closely with an almost sensual affection. Wow, Giles thought, that smile of hers could corrupt a saint. She, too, was worth one of his trademark lines. How had he missed that when she first walked in?

  Then Giles got another shock. He realized that Glacier Girl was stealing glances at the Ripper, that she was ushering her friend toward him deliberately. So there were two people, and each had recognized the other, yet pretended not to. What, exactly, was going on?

  With his drink in hand, Giles leaned back against the wall, eager to watch the cracking little drama play out.

  “Whoever buys this piece will wish he hadn’t,” Kate told Adriana. They were standing before an oil painting of a couple kissing in a garden by the eighteenth-century French artist Jean-Honoré Fragonard.

  “What do you mean?” Adriana asked, seeming genuinely curious.

  From the corner of her eye Kate saw that de Tolomei was holding a cell phone to his ear, but she could tell he was merely making it appear that he was carrying on a conversation. He was definitely listening to her. Satisfied, she continued. “It’s a forgery. I’m sure of it.”

  “How?”

  “Well, you know how in France during World War Two the Nazis had a task force confiscating art from wealthy Jewish families and dealers, cataloging everything, then shipping it off to Germany for Hitler’s and Goering’s collections?”

  Adriana nodded.

  “Before the war, a lot of those families, including the Rothschilds, transported the bulk of their collections out of Paris—not because they anticipated the looting at that point but because they assumed the Luftwaffe would be bombing the city. Anyway, before he fled to America, Robert de Rothschild sent his art to a number of places, one of which was his château, La Versine, in the countryside. Once the Nazis invaded France, it wasn’t long before their art task force got to work, and they went after the world-famous Rothschild collections first. Before they reached La Versine, Robert’s staff hid as much as they could. Including this painting.”

  Kate paused for a moment to take a sip of her wine.

  “And when the Nazis arrived?” Adriana prompted.

  “They found everything except for some antique clocks and furniture hidden in a storage shed,as well as two Fragonards and a Van Eyck hidden in the guest house of the neighboring château, La Faunier.”

  “But how does that make this a forgery?” Adriana asked, gesturing toward the Fragonard beside them.

  Kate smiled. “Because when the Allies were bombing in 1944, Château La Faunier’s guest house was completely destroyed.”

  “So those three paintings…”

  “Ashes, baby,” Kate said. “The forger must’ve used a photograph of the original to paint this, then probably had the Rothschild records at the various archives doctored.”

  “People can do that?”

  Kate shrugged. “Pay off an archivist for access to the relevant documents after hours? It wouldn’t be too hard.”

  “Are you gonna say something?”

  “Eventually,” Kate said, smiling mischievously. “But first I’d like to see how much someone pays for it.”

  Then, leaning in closely, Kate murmured her last words just inches from Adriana’s ear. “Now get out of here, gorgeous. Go delight some of those poor souls who’ve been dreaming about you all evening.” While speaking, Kate had also been pressing the bowl of her wineglass against her stomach and twisting it, using the fabric of her dress to remove any fingerprints and Adriana’s body to conceal what she was doing from de Tolomei.

  “I’m going to run to the loo,” Adriana said, loudly enough for de Tolomei to overhear.

  “Okay. I should check my voice mail anyway,” Kate replied, careful to hold her wineglass only by its base as she transferred it to her left hand and retrieved her cell phone from her shoulder bag with her right.

  As Adriana walked off, Kate turned to face the Fragonard and brought her phone to her ear, wondering whether de Tolomei would bite. If so, she would admit she’d tricked him, then introduce herself as the P.I. that she was, pretending to be interested in him for the sole purpose of signing a big client to impress her boss. By coyly tricking him once, she thought it likely he’d buy her act. People who were suspicious enough to look beneath surfaces—expecting the unexpected—tended to anticipate one ‘Ah-ha!’ Not two.

  “Excuse me. I’m sorry to interrupt…”

  Kate flipped her phone closed and turned to de Tolomei with a look of mild irritation. “Well, now that you have…”

  “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation and was terribly curious about something.”

  Kate raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m familiar with the Robert de Rothschild story—I’ve read about the items hidden in the storage shed at La Versine, as well as in the secret room Robert had constructed in his Paris home—but that Château La Faunier guest house? I’ve never heard that part of the story.”

  “That’s because I made it up,” Kate said with an impish smile. “Château La Faunier—the phony château? I just wanted to get your attention. Could you hold this for a second?” she asked, handing him her wine.

  While de Tolomei did so, Kate reached into her shoulder bag for her wallet, pulled out one of her cards, then handed it over and reclaimed her glass. By its base.

  “ ‘Kate Morgan, private investigator with the Slade Group,’ ” he read aloud, then looked back up and extended his hand. “Luca de Tolomei. Enchanted.”

  “Likewise. Your reputation precedes you. I’ve been wanting to meet you for a while now. One of my specialties is tracking down missing art. You may have read about the Veneziano I helped a client locate a few months back…”

  “The one hidden beneath that ghastly Victorian fox hunt? How could I forget?” de Tolomei interrupted. “That was you?”

  Kate nodded.

  “Impressive.”

  She smiled. “Anyway, I thought my abilities—along with my company’s other services—might be of use to you at some point. Our security team is the best in the business, I’d also imagine you might need background checks on people you deal with once in a while.”

  As she finished her pitch, Kate thought she saw a flicker of amu
sement in de Tolomei’s eyes.

  “My security system is, uh, adequate, I think…”

  We’ll see about that.

  “…and I have an assistant who verifies the credentials of my clients, but there is something I’d like your help with. Something I’ve been after for more than a decade.”

  “A painting?”

  De Tolomei shook his head. “Another form of art, actually…” Pausing, he looked around. Several people were standing nearby. “But I’d prefer not to discuss it in this milieu, if you understand.”

  “Of course,” Kate said. “I remember reading that you’re based in Rome. I’m headed there myself tomorrow. I’ve got business at the Vatican in the early evening, but perhaps we could meet afterward? Or the following morning?”

  “Actually, I think we might be at the same gathering. The Apostolic Palace at eight?”

  “The same.”

  “Serendipity graces us again. I’ll look forward to it,” de Tolomei said.

  They shook hands, and as he turned away, Kate saw his auction paddle, number 717.What? De Tolomei was the man who’d outbid Adriana for the Cézanne, she realized with surprise. And in response, Adriana had vowed to find him and perhaps charm him into selling it to her.

  Moments before, Kate remembered, de Tolomei had brought up the pleasantly coincidental nature of their upcoming meeting in Rome, an encounter she and Edward Cherry had deliberately engineered. Unlike this one. Tonight’s encounter was the serendipitous one, the chance meeting neither of them had planned. Or was it? Who exactly had just fooled whom?

  Shit, Giles Spencer thought to himself. He was disappointed that the evening’s unexpected entertainment had been so damned anticlimactic. Instead of coming to blows or grabbing each other with unrestrainable passion, the Ripper and Glacier Girl had smiled over polite conversation and exchanged business cards.

  Frowning, Giles left the main auction room and headed down the stairs. At least he had new paintings to cheer him up. As he passed the Sotheby’s café on his way out, he noticed Glacier Girl—the wallflower-turned-center-of-the-room-bloom—just ahead. Should he make a play for her? It might be too late, he thought. She appeared to be in a hurry.